Down the Barrel
by hippiechick2112
Summary: He lost his family and his sense of direction and what he should do with himself. What could life give him other than a gun and the chance to think? Based on Gibbs' memories from "Hiatus".


**Down the Barrel**

**Note and Disclaimer:I obviously don't own _N.C.I.S._ and its characters and plots (I wish I did, seriously!), but I do own this story. I just got this idea from remembering _Hiatus_, from season three, so don't sue me for using it, especially when seeing something Gibbs was remembering. I don't think anybody did something like this or saw it, but if you did, you'll understand why. Please, just enjoy it and review!**

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He sat there all alone at dusk, in the middle of nowhere, staring at it long enough, wishing he had the courage, wishing he had the same acceptance everybody else had, to give it up and let it all end with one blow. But, that was the point. He _didn't_ have the same kind of acceptance that everybody else had. They all offered their condolences, said how they sorry they were, and even moved on as they always did. Hell, everybody knew somebody that had died in some form or another.

This, though, was _different_. Most could not know how much pain it caused, how _different_ it had been from any other ordinary death in the family. And he could not recover from this loss, could not even begin to imagine his life without his family, his beautiful wife Shannon and young daughter Kelly, killed while he was overseas, where he could not help them…

But he _could not_ live life anymore. He could no longer go on without them.

He moved the cold, metallic object in his hands…pointing the barrel of the offending object in and out of his eyesight…wondering if he could do it. He could point it at his head, pull the trigger and be done with it. He could leave his own dead body in the middle of nowhere, let the scavengers eat it and the people bury it, claim it to be somebody they could not identify.

_Just as long as he was there with them…with them together again as it had been…then he could be ok, could be a whole person again. They were a family. They couldn't be separated._

Then again, he thought, there were consequences to every action, an equal _reaction_ to everything someone had done. _And what would those be?_ His father in Stillwater would probably mourn his loss. The people he worked with in Desert Storm would wonder about him. They _all_ knew about Shannon and Kelly. They all offered their help, their lending hand in sympathy, and yet, after all was said and done…all that was passing through his mind's memories…he could not accept it anymore. His mind dragged him back and forth, memories brought back, and it burned him, his whole being, his _soul_, without understanding or giving him a chance.

And life would _never_ give him chances again. He had taken advantage of everything, had dreamt everything to be true as his happiness made his circle complete, and then it turned into an ugly nightmare that could not be fantasy. It was _all_ true, all too true…

_It had no mercy. It would not relent, would not set him free._

He put the bringer of death down again, thinking…thinking that perhaps this was not the best ideas. He smiled unexpectedly, remembering Shannon's "Code to Live By", rules that she says everybody should have and live by. Then, sudden shame filled him, consumed him, emptying out the half of the soul that made him complete, made him full.

_Why can't I forget her? Why can't the void be filled again?_

The barrel then hit his forehead again, panting coming and going, his life flashing through his blurry sights again. Eyes closed, whispers of forgiveness filling his mouth, farewells in his mind…

And then, _nothing_…there could be nothing. No force could allow him to move, would _never_ give him permission to pull the trigger of a gun. He couldn't do it.

_But isn't it always better to seek forgiveness than to ask for permission?_

_No, saying that you're sorry is a sign of weakness._

He collapsed to the ground as the gun dropped without a shot, crying out in pain, crying out in the unfairness of it all. Justice had been served. Mike Franks had made sure of that on purpose. That Mexican drug lord had been killed by his own hands, to tip the scales once more: two souls for the scum's heartless being, driving as his wife and daughter had been in a car when they died. But, what helped in doing that?

It was a fair dealing, he would have said. And he had not told anybody about it, either.

Soon, before he could come back into reality, night had fallen. His tears were spent. The feelings were still there, despite everything he had done. His life had gone on after all.

_She wouldn't let me do it. She couldn't let me._

He got up, looked around. The gun was still there, of course, and laid there, waiting for him, asking him if he wanted to move on. But, _could_ he still? Could he live life without the people he loved the most, the two people who made his life the way it could never be again?

_If I came this far, could I keep walking?_

She said that sometimes you were wrong…Shannon had said that. She said that sometimes people could be wrong, even when they thought that the things they did in life were right. And was he wrong this time, maybe the first in his life? Could he, Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Jethro Gibbs, be wrong?

_I was wrong. No, I _am_ wrong._

His eyes felt stiff, his face mellowed from the sudden assault, his nose wet from the effort. The red rims that hardened him – had given him a new perspective – and had grown dimmer, had given him strength. His weakness had become his strength, had given him another reason to live.

_Maybe I could go on._

_Or perhaps not._

He could not tell now, but maybe later, maybe after hours, days, months, _years_ without them. But they would wait for him, if there was ever such a place as heaven or hell or whatever it was. And if there was such a place, then maybe he could be there with them when he dies, when he finally let life catch up to him or _he_ had caught up in his life.

The gun was picked up, wiped clean and put away in his holder. And, with a sigh in his ears – or was it a whisper that he heard? – he walked away, a scene undisturbed, a scene without witnesses: a painful reminder of life and death, where he could have faced down the barrel of his gun.


End file.
